


Like Real People Do

by allonsy_gabriel



Series: Another 51 [25]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Childhood Friends, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Kids (Good Omens), Crowley is a Sap!!!, Daydreaming, Fluff, Growing Old Together, Kinda?, Light Angst, Look it's a weird premise just trust me please, M/M, Married Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 09:23:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21052046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel
Summary: Sometimes, when the sky was particularly dark and Crowley was feeling particularly melancholy, he would imagine what their lives would be like, he and Aziraphale, if they were just a touch more human.





	Like Real People Do

**Author's Note:**

> look okay this is weird premise i know but please just go with me on this it's sweet and sort of sad and i kinda really like it sO
> 
> thanks

Sometimes, when the sky was particularly dark and Crowley was feeling particularly melancholy, he would imagine what their lives would be like, he and Aziraphale, if they were just a touch more human.

He imagined childhood friends playing side by side, racing across fields and sword fighting with sticks and climbing trees, whose constant, steady friendship slowly developed into something more, something neither of them wanted to acknowledge but was there none the less.

He imagined the two of them at university, bickering in class, sharing a shitty two-room flat. He imagined late nights pouring over books as they shared sneaky, knowing glances with each other, little looks that would have the two of them spiraling into fits of giggles. He imagined them living off of coffee and junk food and the knowledge that they would have each other, always.

He didn’t really imagine jobs—they were, as a general rule, dull, and Crowley steadfastly avoided anything  _ dull _ —but he thought he’d probably do something with banking, or, in his more fanciful thoughts, the stars. Aziraphale would have his bookshop, obviously, but he’d actually have to sell things, however awful it would be. Perhaps he’d take up writing or editing or something equally bookish and geeky and oddly endearing.

He  _ did  _ imagine a cottage by the sea, overgrown with ivy and shrubbery, big enough for a library and a large (not at all ridiculous,  _ thank you very fucking much _ ) number of houseplants. There would be a bench in the garden, just under an old tree (apple, for the sentimental sake of it), where they would share their first kiss after so many years of silent pining. It would be raining. Crowley would smile.

He imagined rings and vows and black and white tuxedos and over-the-top floral arrangements. He thought of Aziraphale’s face smeared in red velvet cake, his mouth open in shock. He thought of sappy black-and-white photos that would sit on the mantle and slow dancing under the stars to kitschy love songs.

It was lovely.

Crowley lay in bed, alone, on those nights and entertained himself with his own wildest dreams, his own ludicrous fantasies.

Maybe they would have a child, a kid with red curly hair and bright green eyes, somehow a perfect mixture of blue and gold (he knew this wasn’t how biology worked, but he liked to think that it’d make an exception, just this once; just for them). Aziraphale would teach them about food and literature, Crowley would teach them about plants and the stars, and neither of them would teach the kid maths because neither of them would be quite that sadistic.

They would grow old eventually, he and Aziraphale, if they were human. Their hair would grey, their faces would wrinkle, the both of them etched with worry lines and smile lines in equal measure. They would retire, spend their days working in the garden or knitting or baking cookies or gossiping about the Local Youths or whatever it was that old humans did.

They would be sickeningly sweet. Sickeningly in love.

He never imagined them dying. Not if he could help it.

It brought up too many questions.

The demon’s daydreams were sprawling and overgrown, playing out behind his eyelids at night. Endless cycles of  _ what if, what if, what if. _

He never spoke of them with Aziraphale—how could he?—but he allowed them to comfort him as he sat alone in the dark.

No Heaven. No Hell. No overbearing superiors (at least not immortal, all-powerful ones) or opposing sides or Armageddon.

Just the two of them and the life they’d build.

A life where he could reach out and grab Aziraphale’s hand, brush his lips across the angel’s (because he’d always be Crowley’s angel, no matter the imaginative scenario) cheek, run his fingers through his hair.

A life where he could cry into Aziraphale’s shoulder and not worry about the consequences.

A life where he wouldn’t have to hesitate to say  _ I love you _ .

A life, finite and messy and broken and beautiful and endlessly, endlessly joyful.

Crowley sighed, the sound echoing in the silence of his bedroom, before rolling over onto his side and falling asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> please tell me if this made Any sense!!!


End file.
